


when we touch (it's dangerous)

by jdphoenix



Series: at first sight [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU of an AU, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 13:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17898710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: After all the trouble he's gone to, Grant really doesn't know why he's taking the soulmate he never wanted to bed.





	when we touch (it's dangerous)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [it wasn't love at first sight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5775259) by [jdphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix). 



> This is an AU of my fic 'it wasn't love at first sight.' You shouldn't need to read that (or its _other_ AU) to understand this as it takes place earlier in the timeline than either of them and does explain what's going on.
> 
> Title from Madilyn Bailey's 'death of me.'

Grant’s got one knee slotted between her legs and there’s this pretty little moan that rises up in her throat when she grinds down on him. His thoughts go neanderthal for a minute—shit like _fuck_ and _god_ and _mine—_ while his hand digs deep in her hair, tipping her head up so he can kiss her more fully.

His other hand’s busy with the key card. He’s having trouble working it one-handed while his focus is occupied elsewhere. Good thing too because it gives his brain time to turn back on and he can (reluctantly; so _so_ reluctantly) break the kiss.

“You sure about this?” he asks. “I know you’ve been going through some stuff.”

That _stuff_ is exactly why he shouldn’t be doing this. Screw maintaining his cover, he went to a lot of trouble to purge himself of any obligation to her. He was free and clear, ready to move on with his life. And somehow he’s ended up here, about ready to forget the stupid door and fuck her right here in the hall. What the hell is he thinking?

She fists her hand the front of his shirt, dragging him back to her. Well then. That’s his cover satisfied. Now he can get back to enjoying this.

The fingers of her free hand tangle with his and finally ( _finally_ ) the key card clicks home. They go spilling into his hotel room.

 

 

 

_(three months earlier)_

 

Fitz is in the corner, taking deep gulps of air and it’s even odds whether he’s faking the nausea or he really is in danger of barfing all over their crime scene. How, Grant wonders, is he still this much of a wuss about dead bodies after so many years with Simmons?

“Anything?” Coulson asks.

“Maybe,” Skye says from behind her laptop, “if I didn’t have to stop every ten seconds and reboot.” It’s been weeks since Hong Kong and she’s grown comfortable enough to quit with the kicked puppy routine and start whining to have the bracelet removed. Grant’s not sure letting her off for good behavior would be worse than the constant grousing.

“I have faith in your skills,” Coulson says mildly. “Anyone else? Simmons?”

Simmons has been crouched over the victim’s corpse pretty much since they arrived. She was her usual chatty self at first, alternately ignoring Fitz’s complaints and bouncing ideas off him, but she’s drifted into silence now. Could be respect for the dead. Could be something else. 

Something about the orientation—her over a dead body—and the way she’s gone pale as what remains of the dead guy puts Grant in mind of the last time Simmons was brought in to determine a weird cause of death. As he and May have both covered the space independently and there doesn’t seem to be anything the local PD missed, he drops to his haunches on the corpse’s right side so he can get a look at Simmons’ face.

“Simmons?” he asks. “You in there?”

The room was already quiet, but there’s a pressure on it now. Call it anticipation or fear or wariness, it’s all the same thing: the others are on the edge of their seats to hear what’s got Simmons so freaked. No doubt they’re all thinking the same thing he is.

He reaches out to rest a hand on her shoulder. She jumps to her feet like he burned her.

“I’m sorry,” she says but he’s not sure she’s even talking to him. “I- I have to- I need some air.”

She practically flees the room and, a moment later, they all hear the house’s screen door banging shut behind her.

“What the hell was that?” Skye asks.

“Ward?” Coulson asks, catching Grant’s focus on the body.

Grant stretches awkwardly over the charred remains of the poor bastard’s ribcage to turn his arm so the mark there is clearer. The familiar design sends a ripple of unease through him. He twists his head to meet Coulson’s eyes. “He’s got Simmons’ mark.”

 

 

Grant’s ready for a workout. He just left yet another debrief with Coulson that amounted to _we got nothing_. Two days into the investigation, aside from the fact the perpetrator was a Gifted—and that he had a mark he couldn’t possibly have had, not that Grant’ll be mentioning that little detail—it’s looking like a random killing, not the sort of thing SHIELD deals with. But on his way to the punching bag, Fitz catches his eye from the lab.

Simmons is in there, head bent over photos and files and every piece of social media trash Skye could dig up on Ashton Helms. Not really surprising, under the circumstances, but it must be bad if Fitz is looking to Grant for emotional support.

He gives him a nod, releasing him from the obligation of watching over her, and he instantly heads for the stairs. He’s got the decency to tap Simmons’ shoulder on the way, but it’s clear he’s desperate for some lunch or a pee break at the least.

Grant rests his forearms on the edge of Simmons’ table. “So, what’s all this?”

“Ashton,” she says and her voice is wrecked. She looks composed as ever, but it’s clear she’s still spending most of her time crying. She lifts her face with a smile so bright and fake it’s like a knife. “I’m trying to get to know him. Since I never got the chance … before.”

She touches one of the glossy selfies Skye printed out. Helms with a girl—a  _girlfriend_ from the looks of it. Under it, at an angle so it's only half-visible, is Helms’ arm, one of the few identifying features he had after his torso went up in flames. Even two days into the case, Grant still feels a deep, overwhelming wrongness whenever he sees his mark on another man’s body.

But he asked for this. When the Bus was on standby so Simmons could take a few days to recover after her impromptu skydiving lesson, he sent a message to John. He never had any intention of finding his soulmate but now he’s stuck with her for the duration of this mission, he needs that bridge _burned_. Simmons thinking her soulmate is some nobody who died before they even met is as good kindling as anything. At the very least, it might take this pressure off his chest he feels whenever the subject of soulmates has come up and she gets that stars-in-her-eyes look on her face.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Now her smile’s more real. It’s sadder too, but that’s the trade-off. “Please stop saying that. I don’t think I’ve had a single conversation in the past two days that hasn’t included an apology. It’s no one’s fault. No one aside from the Gifted’s of course. Any leads?”

Grant shakes his head. “I’m sor-” He catches himself just in time. “No. No leads. If they were on the Index-”

“We’d have found them by now,” she fills in. “So they must be an unknown Gifted. And if they killed once, perhaps-!”

He hates to cut through her excitement but better to do it now before it runs away with her. “I thought of that. Nothing in the database.”

“Oh.” She deflates, shoulders slumping as her gaze returns to the photos strewn over her lab bench.

He doesn’t think about how it plays into his cover or how it might fit into his ongoing goals to ingratiate himself to the team, he just rounds the table and rests a hand on her back.

“We’ll find whoever did this,” he says fiercely. “ _I’ll_ find him. I promise.”

He doesn’t even think it’s a lie necessarily. John’s gotta have a plan here, he wouldn’t have made it so dramatic as to pull SHIELD into the mix if he didn’t. And anyone who makes this much of a mess is surely expendable. It shouldn’t be too hard to get whatever stooge offed Helms in Grant’s cross-hairs.

Simmons leans into his chest. There’s nothing erotic in the move, no sign of the crush she spent weeks harboring after he dove out of the plane to save her. Just simple trust and friendship. She believes in him.

Her fingers brush Helms’ cheek in the nearest photo. It’s a slight movement, but Grant could swear those fingers are curling inside his gut.

“I know you will,” she says. Her words are accompanied by the cold seep of tears leaking through his shirt. “Thank you.”

 

 

 

If Grant were a more honest person, he might admit to himself that’s what started this. Seeing her mourn Helms, knowing she was shedding tears that should’ve been for him. He’s always been jealous of things that are his; never occurred to him that he might be jealous of things he didn’t even want.

He throws out a lot of alternatives in the aftermath of some truly spectacular sex—boredom now he’s got the team right where he wants them, a serious case of blue balls after months of celibacy to back up his lone wolf cover, the simple lack of any reason _not_ to do it when she’s been practically begging for some physical comfort in the wake of Helms’ death—and lets them hover in the pale light of the hotel lamps while he idly trails his fingers over her skin. It really was great sex. Makes sense now why everyone makes such a big deal about this whole soulmates thing.

She’s in much the same state. Touching him just to touch and lost in her thoughts. But her touch grows dull and he’s left with this empty ache in the pit of his stomach.

It’s his soulmark. Or not his mark. Her fingers are skimming over the surface of the photostatic veil he’s worn for years. He wonders at their thoughts following such similar paths and pushes aside the absurd wish the veil wasn’t there at all so he could really feel her fingers on that most private part of him.

(That blue balls theory is looking more and more likely if he’s having dumbass thoughts like that.)

“You haven’t met them, have you?” she asks.

His _no_ gets caught in his throat. It must worry her because she tips her head up to better see him. Her hair is soft on his chest.

“Are they dead?” she asks in this tiny little voice that just-

“No,” he says firmly. His fingers flex on her hip. Not much, but more than they should when she’s dancing this close to the truth.

She holds his gaze for the longest seconds of his life (second-longest; the longest was just a little while ago when he held himself on the edge and watched her mouth work voicelessly) then settles back against his chest, her eyes on the blank space the veil leaves on his arm.

“Neither is mine.”

She’s on top of him, so there’s really no hiding that the air goes right out of him at those three little words, said so innocuously, like she just made a comment about the fucking weather.

“At least I don’t think,” she says. “Perhaps they’re trying to cover it up for some reason.”

“What-” He chokes and has to start again. “What are you talking about? Helms-”

“Was _not_ my soulmate.” That’s not innocuous. It’s fierce and full of fire so sudden it reminds him of the berserker rage.

She pushes herself up, straddles his hips. He can’t help the wave of arousal it sends through him, but his skin feels cold. She takes care of that, sliding her hands over his chest like his body belongs to her.

“I went to visit his grave. After Coulson was rescued and I could be certain he was stable.”

He knows. When she announced she was taking a personal day, May pinned him with a look over the breakfast table that said in no uncertain terms he’d be following her. He trailed her to the cemetery and then let her have her privacy.

“One of his schoolmates was there. I introduced myself and admitted we’d never met, that I’d only happened to see the mark after he had died.”

“You didn’t tell him-”

She shakes her head, guessing the source of his worry. “I implied I’d been working at the morgue. I can’t say he believed me, but if he recognized me as SHIELD, he gave no sign.”

Grant forces himself to relax. She’s right. Whatever Helms’ old friend thought of her, nothing’s come of it. Yet. Probably he chalked up any weirdness in her demeanor to mourning.

“But he was confused, you see, when I said I’d seen the mark after he died. His friend had obviously heard about the fire and I explained that his limbs were spared.” She sighs and her weight rests more heavily on his hips. “He told me Mr. Helms’ mark was on his chest. Dead center. Exactly where our elusive Gifted targeted his attack. Rather coincidental, don’t you think?”

He grips her hips to anchor them both and kneads her skin with his thumbs, wondering how they got from the best sex of his life to here.

“That is, if it was a Gifted at all,” she goes on. “You said you couldn’t find any records matching the perpetrator’s M.O. in the database, but Skye found one. The murder of a scientist who crossed AIM. The assassin was utilizing the extremis formula to alter their own physiology and used the heat of their own regeneration to burn through the man’s skull, killing him. Quite brutally, I might add.”

Grant doesn’t think his hesitation is out of place, given the topic of conversation. “Why tell me all this?”

She stares down at him, for a moment unsure. Then her jaw stiffens and she says, “Because I believe SHIELD is trying to manipulate me somehow.”

“SHIELD? No.” He shakes his head firmly, ever the loyal agent. It goes a long way to hiding his relief. “Plenty of people have access to extremis these days and I could’ve just missed-”

“Really? SHIELD cleaned up Iron Man’s mess after AIM’s demise. Do you honestly think you somehow overlooked _all_ of those records in your search when the case was this personal?”

He lets that sit a moment. She’s not accusing him. But that still doesn’t explain why she’s bringing this up with him.

“So why are you telling me this?” he asks again. “Why not go to Fitz? Or Coulson? Skye would gladly help you expose SHIELD.”

Her eyes drop to his chest. He wonders if she’s staring at the spot Helms’ forgotten soulmark sat. “Because you promised to help me find who did this. Do you still mean that? Knowing where it might lead?”

He catches one of her hands, draws her gaze back up to him. She doesn’t balk. She could offer to release him from his promise, but she’s not. She’s putting the burden on him: keep the promise or break it. He should probably be pissed at her for that, but he only feels a faint swell of pride. She’s a manipulative little bitch when she wants to be.

And she wants to use him to ferret out SHIELD’s dark secrets. Could be she’s just too smart for her own good, seeing shadows she wasn’t meant to, but she’s right that he _didn’t_ see those AIM records. And he’s pretty sure, if she’s made it this far, that she didn’t either. Only way that happened is if John orchestrated it.

He wants her questioning SHIELD. Doesn’t take a genius to see that road ultimately leads to her hailing Hydra.

It’s a dangerous game, made more so by the weight of the veil covering Grant’s arm. And in a lot of ways it’s exactly the opposite of what Grant asked for here. This whole cover-up with the fake soulmark was supposed to ensure that when this mission’s over, she’ll be out of his life for good. It wasn’t supposed to make her a more permanent part of it.

Of course John’s not really clairvoyant, no way he could’ve known it’d lead the two of them to this bed or this conversation. More likely than not this is about the long game—and this right here is Grant’s chance to decide whether or not he wants to be a part of that. Does he want to be the one pushing the buttons, maneuvering her into Hydra’s way of thinking? Or does he want his freedom?

She’s still waiting, giving him all the time he needs to think over what she must see as potential treason. She doesn’t seem to mind that, while he’s been thinking, his thumb has edged around her arm to stroke her soulmark. He studies it, how the pattern he’s known all his life is changed by her more delicate anatomy. For the first time, seeing it on her doesn’t piss him off.

He sits up, wrapping one hand around the back of her head as he does so she won’t get the wrong idea. She’s still straddling his lap, her naked chest brushing his with every breath.

“I keep my promises, Jemma. No matter what.” Even if he has to find some poor AIM schlub to frame for the job, he’ll give her closure. And then they can both get down to the business of moving on.

 


End file.
